The Texas band The Happen-Ins, are like a beat up pickup truck driving down a gravel road, spooking up a cloud of dust along the way. They've got a blown out tire in the rear -- the rubber peeling off in soon-to-be inanimate slabs of black, getting flipped into the air like a shot crow. It's well past quitting time on a Friday night and there's some hard-won freedom to celebrate.

There are women to pick up, but first, other women that need to be dumped or ditched. There's a liquor store that needs visiting, but there's a chilled six-pack riding shotgun that's going to tide a thirst over until it can be reached. The tins are cracked and guzzled and they're tossed out of the driver's side window, into a ditch filled with milkweeds and garter snakes, with a head poking out that won't be clear for long. There are demons to be wrestled with. There are foolish things to entertain. They don't feel like waiting.

The music makes you feel like these characters are just barely safe, or they'll only be safe for a little while. They've got to get themselves to where the action is, to a crazy place where the salt that they'll be rubbing into any of their wounds will feel more like a balm than anything else. They're looking to find there place amongst the animals.